The Christmas Proof: Chapter 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE CHRISTMAS PROOF
Copyright © 2024 by Tenesha L. Curtis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Astanna, an imprint of Writerwerx University.
Paperback ISBN: 978–1–961891–01–2
eBook ISBN: 978–1–961891–00–5
Cover and book design by Tenesha L. Curtis.
Editing services by Kimberly Hunt of RevisionDivision.com and Michele Kessel of MicheleKessel.com.
Paperback version printed in the United States of America.
1
The massive construction worker walking through the automatic doors doesn’t seem to hear or feel the sickening crunch under his Red Wings.
“Dammit,” I whisper, waiting until he gets a few feet ahead of me to bend and pick up the sad pile of white wooden letters that used to be my name badge. I try to shrug off my irritation. No sense getting worked up about it.
“What happened?” Tory’s voice sounds through my earbuds. I hear my best friend clicking her mouse rapidly, so I sense she is checking emails from her boss even though it’s ten minutes until six on a Friday night.
“I dropped my name badge, and it fell under this guy’s boot. I’ll have to ask Vanny for another one.” I put the shattered K-A-S-A pieces in my jacket pocket and continue into the store. The badge-destroying man heads left toward the frozen foods. I turn right toward the customer service desk.
Pinpoints of golden light pull my gaze toward the ceiling. Drone lightning bugs about twice the size of their organic counterparts are the latest addition to our inventory in time for Christmas. Since I’m always on dayshift, I don’t get to see the iridescent-winged bots in their full glory. They are now executing their pre-programmed flight patterns near the entrance in plain, tantalizing sight of wide-eyed children and curious adults waiting in line at the check lanes. Vanny’s idea. And the shrinking pyramid of drone boxes near the floral department proves it is a genius one.
The Foothills IGA is an excellent example of a small-town grocery store. We have a lot to offer — from eggs to phone chargers to tampons to roses — and it’s all snuggled up into a shop less than the size of some gas stations. Big Canoe is a North Georgia mountain community at the tail end of the Appalachians. I grew up here surrounded by beautiful views and tourists rotating throughout the year for business retreats, class reunions, romantic getaways, and family vacations. Though there are smaller retailers like convenience stores and dollar stores sprinkled around Big Canoe, IGA is the only convenient “real” grocery store. The next nearest is a shopping area with a Kroger and a Walmart more than ten miles away. We get a lot of “quick run to grab” traffic.
As it is on the first day of every month, the store is bustling. It’s busier now because it’s the first of December. People are here for their normal groceries using their monthly benefits deposits or to stock up for the month so they don’t have to come back down the mountain for a few weeks. But there are also people getting money orders for cash gifts, buying turkeys and hams to prepare for Christmas dinners, and applying for our new IGA Visa cards to bulk up their budget so they can shop for more (or better) presents for their loved ones.
“I’ve told Vanny before that she makes those letters too thin. They’re cute, don’t get me wrong, but not durable. She slices the wood until it’s like paper.” I can hear Tory typing now. If she starts another project for the law firm she works at, she’ll be hanging up soon, which is fine since I’m about to clock in.
“No, it’s fine. It’s my fault. The pin’s been wonky for a couple of weeks. It must have been loose and slipped off my vest.” I should have told Vanny the first time it started acting crazy, but I thought I was leaving the store soon. Why did I need a new name badge for a place to which I wasn’t coming back?
To the left of the world’s shortest customer service counter is a tight hallway with a time clock. I put my index finger on the clock, and the surface flashes green as it records my start time as 5:52 p.m. I turn around to wait for Vanny to finish cashing a customer’s check so I can ask her for a replacement badge. The ends of her jet-black hair curl slightly at the top of her shoulders, and her smile is warm and genuine as she counts hundreds into the elderly woman’s hand. Vanny likes to make all our name badges, painting them herself. No plastic or instant label makers for her team. It’s adorable, but cumbersome and time-consuming. This makes me feel more guilty for not fixing the pin earlier. Worse, because I shouldn’t work here anymore.
“I just clocked in,” I tell Tory, hearing her typing growing faster by the second.
“And I just got another assignment, House. So I need to go, too.”
I laugh. I’m sure she’s thrilled to have the firm trust her so much. She doesn’t need to go — she’s dying to go.
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sure thing. Have fun!”
She disconnects the call. I put my earbuds in their case and slide the container into my vest pocket. A few seconds later, I get the habitual text warning me to stay away from Dillin. I roll my eyes and smile, typing a quick Yes, ma’am and wishing more than anything I was in Atlanta with her.
“Evenin’, Kasa!”
“Hey, Kasa!”
“Kasa, sweetie, you’re still here!”
I wave and nod at the greetings from my doctor, the girl who works in floral, and a popular real estate agent who lives nearby. It’s still wild to think that a couple of weeks ago, the IGA staff had a “City Slicker” going-away party for me on my “last” day. It was complete with a cake shaped like downtown Atlanta’s Bank of America Building. I’d been so excited and so proud to be getting away from the slow-paced, tranquil mountain life in Big Canoe.
Like Tory, I would live in a big, exciting city and make a new life for myself at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Everyone else who moved away did so in their middle or late teens. Tory held out until we were twenty; I was her only reason to stay. She had saved up the money for the move by working at the IGA deli. She had researched work opportunities in law. She had compared housing rentals until she established her career enough to afford something more substantial.
Seeing her do this while I stagnated, I had no choice but to push her toward her destiny. The last thing I wanted was her resentment or thoughts that I’d held her back from something. After all, we are only an hour’s drive apart. I convinced Tory to go by framing her departure as a way to settle and do some experiential recon. That way, she could help me plan my relocation to Atlanta. A good, true friend who loves me will do as I ask, right?
As Vanny hands the customer a receipt, she turns to me and I show her the shattered letters cradled in my hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Just dump it,” Vanny says, twisting her thin, tan lips in annoyance and rolling her brown eyes. “I’ll make you another one tonight.” She turns to another customer approaching the counter, waving a dismissive hand at my quick, “Thank you.”
I drop the pieces in the trash below the time clock and start down the hallway to the breakroom so I can put my keys and wallet in my locker. As I walk, I take an adoring look at the beautiful man on my phone’s lock screen: smoldering amber eyes, sepia skin, onyx locs framing his angular face. Is it possible to fall in love with someone you’ve never been in the same room with? If so, I’ve done it. Hard.
Reave Alami has been my favorite author since I stumbled upon his debut epic fantasy, The Time Drinker, in middle school while we were on a class trip to the Pickens County Library. I’ve always loved dark blue and his novel was a beautiful midnight color with a metallic sheen to it. My thirteen-year-old brain had to have it, mesmerized by the way it seemed to pulse in the light as I walked past. When I was satisfied that the cover didn’t reveal anything scary — I never could handle horror well — I flipped it over and saw his author’s headshot. It was teen-hormone-fueled-attraction at first sight. Marginally more fascinating to me than his face was his being seventeen years old according to the bio under his picture. I was so impressed that I started to get it into my head that I could be a young author. After all, he was only four years older than me. And I liked reading books, so why couldn’t I write them?
As never before, I started putting a real effort into the creative writing assignments that were part of my English classes. Where I had previously begged to do verbal stories instead of written ones, I shocked my teachers by submitting written fiction without argument. But I noticed that when it came to the creative side of things, I didn’t have the best mind for storytelling. I’d get a few exciting pages out and then lose interest in writing the story, having to slog through to the end of something only a few thousand words long. I wanted it done for me so I could read it. No way could I write an entire novel. Who had time for all that world-building and character-development business? And then there was re-writing on top of that? No thanks.
But the attempt gave me more respect for what he was able to do with a laptop and twenty-six letters at his disposal. Without putting a finger on me, this man moved me — to tears, to anger, to lust. To dream. His main characters were almost always female, and they had a subtle, self-assured badassery about them. They’d do everything to prevent a fight, but once the enemy crossed that line, the heroines would subdue the enemy without breaking a sweat. They wouldn’t initiate an encounter with a love interest, but if they got a hint of desire, they dove into sophisticated seduction that would turn hard-to-get into begging-for-more.
So of course, I had to start a fan club for him of which I’m still president. Reave Needers now has over 10,000 registered members. That’s more than 10,000 people who are as fascinated by Reave as I am. Finding a favorite author is a great thing, but being part of a community of other people who love him almost as much as I do is heavenly. The only thing that would be better is meeting him, face-to-face, in the flesh. But I’d probably run and hide if that ever happened, as I get uncomfortable in most social situations.
Sometimes I feel like those main characters in the early portions of his books. I’ve never quite gotten to the “badass” part of my life — leaving the nest, making my way in the world, coming into my own. But Reave pushes me to never forget that I’m headed there. To stay the course. If I ever get to meet him, I have to try to pretend I know how to speak and thank him for keeping me focused and inspired.
Day to day, I don’t live my life like his heroines do. But leaving Big Canoe will be the start of who I’ll be in the future. Kasa+. The kind of woman Reave writes about in his books. Someone brave and bold who takes the world by the throat and submits it to her will. Someone who lives life based on her desires and not what other people want from her. There’s even a chance I could find someone like Reave to be my partner in that kind of life. I’d feel like a billionaire if I could find romance with somebody half as amazing as Reave.
And who knows? Maybe I will. One day.
“Hey there, Fingers,” a familiar, pre-pubescent-sounding voice comes from ahead of me, dragging me from my hopeful thoughts of Reave and the future. I look up to find Dillin, one of our baggers, approaching me with a face pocked with pimples and a smile dying for a set of braces. Not much has changed with him in the past six years since we left high school. He’s still a bagger at the IGA. He still hasn’t gone to college. He still hasn’t moved away. We have a lot in common and that is both sad and comfortable. And comfort is trouble. Exactly the kind of “settling” I don’t want. I have to get out of here. I have to do more. Be more. Soon.
“Hey, Dillin,” I mumble, nodding to him and trying to slide past him into the break room.
“Hold on there, now,” he says, holding a palm right in front of one of my breasts, daring me to move into his touch. I stand still, looking at a swirl of blonde hair hanging above one of his eyebrows.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, lowering his hands to my waist, baby blue eyes mischievous. I stiffen. We are not ten feet away from Vanny. Her suspicion of what we sometimes do on her property is different from her seeing us touching like this with customers in view. “I was wondering if you could help me with something in the back. It’ll be really fast, I swear.”
He leans close as if he’s going to kiss me, chapped pink lips curved up and parted, and I can smell whatever he ate. Something spicy and dripping with dumpster juice.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say and follow him to the back of the store, fiddling with the keys in my pocket and taking another longing look at my phone. What I wouldn’t give to have Reave be the one taking me to the stock room. The thought makes my head spin with all the delightfully naughty things I hear from Tory’s sexual adventures, read about in Reave’s books, and see on Pornhub.
A notification momentarily blocks my view of Reave’s eyes. It’s another message from Scammereave. This guy messages me a few times each month through the Reave Needers website. For years he’s claimed he’s the real Reave, expecting me to fall for it. I read his messages because of how oddly positive they are. This one says Fantastic job with the text-based Q&A with the AJC. You made me sound like a master of the craft. It made me blush. Keep up the awesome work. I appreciate you. And as always, a custom winking emoji made to look like Reave’s face.
As I finish reading it, I realize I’m blushing now. I wish this guy were the real deal. What would it be like to have a private place to chat with Reave one-on-one? Would the real Reave be this kind and flattering all the time? Surely he would. And I wouldn’t mind that flattery bleeding over into the bedroom where so many of my fantasies about Reave have taken place. With Reave, I would be adventurous. Assertive. And I believed that he would let me be. I’d try anything and everything until I found out what I liked the best. Though, I have a short list of things I want to start with.
Just not with Dillin.
For him, sex is all about him getting off. If I were to derive any pleasure from it, that would be purely coincidental. Only once in six years has he tried eating me out. I was pleasantly surprised that he asked. Then insanely disappointed with his “effort.” It was like he was filing taxes or washing dishes. He wasn’t excited about pleasing me; he was fulfilling some kind of obligation or repaying a debt. He stuck to slow, random licks in odd spots with little force, as if he wanted to be as far away from me as possible, yet still have me magically orgasm. He sighed six times before I told him he didn’t have to keep trying. I don’t think he could have looked more relieved if I told him a jury had acquitted him of a triple homicide.
With a shrug and a “We tried, right?” he sprinted back to his living room to play video games while I got dressed in his bedroom and left shortly after that.
I look up in time to catch the stock room door swinging outward after Dillin walks past it and off into a corner out of sight. He waits for me to catch up, unbuttoning his pants. Blow jobs were his favorite, but after a co-worker nearly caught us, he decided hand jobs were easier to hide and abandon if someone walked in on us.
Tory has been telling me since we were in high school that I need to get away from Dillin. Part of me knows I should. The other part has trouble letting go of what’s familiar. Whatever his motives might be, he’s consistently interested in me beyond friendship. And again, there’s comfort in that, regardless of how he acts or what he looks like. And what he asks of me isn’t exactly draining. A few hand jobs in the back of the store every month. Who cares? Ringing up groceries takes up more energy than two or three minutes of jerking him off.
It is nice to feel wanted, even by him. I have a loving set of parents, and Tory’s been my right hand since elementary school. So it’s not like I don’t get any connection or closeness with people. But when it comes to sexy stuff and guys, the ones I want don’t seem to know I exist. And the ones who want me, the Dillins of the world, are tolerable but don’t take my breath away. Not like the couples Reave writes about.
Tory found real love with her fiancée, Allana. A notorious nap addict, Tory didn’t sleep for two days straight after their first conversation. She knew then that she needed to do whatever she could to convince Allana — who had sworn off all romance after a gruesome divorce from her high school sweetheart — to take a chance on love for Tory’s sake. Tory had to have her.
No one “has to have” me. They’d take me if it suited them at the time. They’d tolerate me if they had to. But the ability to fathom life without me? No. No one but my parents and Tory. Even though we aren’t a romantic couple, Dillin would at least notice if I wasn’t around and maybe miss me as a sex partner.
He takes ninety seconds this time. What else is there for me to do but count? No one up front would have time to notice we were gone. Dillin’s fingers are under my shirt, pinching my nipples like he’s going to tear them off my body. I try to disguise my pained face as a smile. I keep my fingers seated at the base of his dick, letting his cum spurt onto the floor between his sneakers so I’ll have less to wash off myself.
“Good job, Fingers,” he pants, patting me on the shoulder after releasing my breasts. All I can muster is an “Okay” as I scurry away, putting my bra back in place and heading to the employee restroom to wash my hands. I know Tory would be disgusted and confused to know what I’d done (again), but I feel an unsettled relief. I’m glad it’s over and appreciate him asking me. Is that pathetic? Maybe. But what else is there? Barely 3,000 people live in Big Canoe. There are over 6 million in Atlanta Metro. I’ll have a much better chance of finding my version of Allana there. Maybe even the fantasy version of Reave that lives in my head. This thought makes me genuinely grin as I tear a paper towel from the roll to dry my hands before heading back to the break room as I’d intended before starting my shift. Once I leave Big Canoe, I’ll be able to become someone new and sophisticated like Tory with her paralegal job, her long hours, and her wrist-straining engagement ring.
“All yours,” the cashier I’m relieving says as I wait for her to log out and take her cash drawer with her. I insert the drawer Vanny handed me, put my phone on top of the till next to the monitor (allowing me to discreetly read any texts from Tory or Reave Needers notifications), and start ringing up a man impatiently waiting for the end of our changing of the guard. I step into the fray for the next few hours. One thing I can say about cashiering is it keeps my hands busy and allows my brain to wander. Not that I wouldn’t rather be busy with one of Reave’s novels, a hot mug of tea, and a thick blanket. But, as far as working goes, I could do a lot worse.
The amount of robotic lightning bugs I’m ringing up pushes my mind toward the engagement rituals of the Kortanians from Reave’s latest book, The Flavor of Magic. He based the ritual on the idea that illuminating the entrance of a lover’s abode shows you are offering yourself up to be the one to light your way home. The characters in the book use everything from glass bowls filled with creatures reminiscent of angler fish to huge dung fires enclosed in towers of mud. That handmade or manually-gathered brightness is a powerful, bold show of devotion for that race of humans.
“You’re still here,” Nurse Donova’s voice drips with frustration as she steps up to the register with a cart filled nearly to the brim, pulling me out of autopilot. She tied her thinning, ivory hair in a ponytail, the end of which licks her brown, leathery ear every time she turns her head. At almost six feet tall, she is still an imposing figure as she nears seventy. I haven’t seen her since the going-away party when she dropped off a keychain with an enamel book ornament for the keys to my first place in Atlanta. “I figured you would’ve hired a professional house sitter — like I told Himari, mind you — and shuffled on down to join Tory by now.” She narrows her emerald eyes at me before I turn my focus down to her order, needing to look away from that stern, Cherokee face.
“No, ma’am. I’m waiting until my parents get back from Europe.” Eggs, ham, key in the code for bananas.
She pauses with a can of beets in her hand, and I look up to see her give me her patented “don’t be an idiot” look before continuing to pull items out of her shopping cart.
“Kasa, you’re an adult now. I understand that. But you’ve given enough. You stayed here through your mother’s diagnosis, the treatments, and her recovery. You should have been gone what? Five years ago? You gave that up for her, and that’s what any good daughter would do. But now it’s your turn.”
I nod as I scan a bottle of grape juice and a can of pears.
She sighs.
“Himari told me she gave you plenty of money for your move after your Uncle Yuto died and left her all that cash. So you have the financial resources to go, don’t you?” She nods to the man who steps in line behind her, and he waves back.
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, wrapping two Christmas-themed mugs in paper bags before sliding them down the lane toward Dillin.
I don’t want to talk about this. Or rather, I don’t want to hear her lecture me about this. But asking her to stop feels disrespectful to her as someone older than I am, my former school nurse, and a customer that I’m currently serving. But she was never the type to ask if someone wanted to discuss something. If she wants to bring it up, that’s exactly what she will do — even if we are alone in the store. That would be torture. But her saying all this in earshot of other customers and fellow employees is excruciating. She’s right. I am an adult, and she has no right to talk to me this way.
“Your Uncle Yuto being racist toward your parents is plenty of reason to take every cent he left, that son of a bitch,” she hisses, hefting two jugs of whole milk onto the belt, her anger giving plenty of power to her thin, buckskin-clad arms.
I know that. I thought haafu was some weird Japanese nickname my uncle had given me for the first few years of my life. When I told kids at school about the nickname, word got back to my parents. Mom had to explain that it meant “half” — more accurately, “half-breed” — and that he was using it as a slur for my Mexican-Japanese heritage, not a nickname. That was the first time I’d ever felt rejected and insulted in my life. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.
“So you deserve to take the bastard’s money and go hog wild! Move to Atlanta. Buy a library full of books. Hell, buy your own bookstore. Isn’t that right?”
I nod again, and Dillin chimes in with a too-loud “Damn straight!” This earns him a poke in the ribs and a glare from Vanny as she walks by on her way back up to the customer service desk. My heart feels like it shakes my whole body with each resonant beat. Anger heats my insides, but I try to keep my face neutral. I’m certain her ability to sense what she used to call “sass” hasn’t dulled over the years, so I try to avoid appearing as if I have profanity on my mind.
A third customer joins the line. Either those gallons of milk are colder than I realized, or my palms are slick with my sweat. Texas toast, inhale, garlic aioli, exhale, key in the code for red seedless grapes, don’t cuss out Nurse Donova.
My phone lights up and vibrates against my till as a Reave Needers notification comes through. Her eyes move to it for a second before she puts her last item on the belt and pushes her cart down to Dillin’s waiting hands.
“See! You’re still managing the fan club for that famous author. Get an office space in Atlanta, and run it like a real business. Make a name for yourself doing something you love to do.”
She pinches the bridge of her broad nose and shakes her head before digging her wallet out of her purse as I tell her the total. Now Nurse Donova is chastising me. I’ve irritated her, but it’s not like any of this is her business. I know she’s concerned, but did she have to say all that out loud right now? None of it’s a secret, but it’s not something I’d talk about with Dillin or with customers around, even if there are two others in line right now.
When I offer her her change and receipt, she takes them but wraps her umber fingers around my wrist.
“I love you, Kasa, but please leave. See what else is out there. I’ve seen what happens to kids like you when they stay here too long,” her derisive side-eye in Dillin’s direction is quick as lightning, “and I don’t want that for you. Himari and Rio don’t want that for you either, though they’re too timid to say. That’s where you get it from, I guess. If you go and hate it for some reason, then you can always come back. But go first.”
She releases me with a sad smile, thanks Dillin cooly, and pushes her full cart out of the store. I start to calm down as I begin checking out the next customer.
When Mom told me about what Uncle Yuto had left us and handed me a check to cover all the help I had provided with her medical bills while she was in and out of the hospital, there was part of me that wanted to rip it up. A very small, very stupid part, but it was there. The more rational end of my brain knew better. Tory had been able to leave Big Canoe in a reasonable amount of time because she worked and saved for it. We both knew that we would need money for a deposit on a place to stay, that we’d need to be able to get utilities turned on in our names, and that we might not be able to get steady work for a while, so having some financial padding of at least a few months’ rent was essential.
On every trip I’ve taken to Atlanta, seeing the sheer size of the homeless population has made me terrified of running out of money. I know I can always come back home, or even ask my parents for more, but the thought of failure is still awful. Seeing that Tory made it the past few years is soothing, but only slightly. With Uncle Yuto’s money erasing the fact that I had used all the funds I earned to help my parents stay afloat, moving to Atlanta was as accessible as if I had saved every cent I’d earned since high school. But I didn’t see any reason to not add more insulation between me and living on the street — okay, maybe asking for some cash from Mom and Dad — once I moved. I figure if I’m going to be here another month anyway, why not take an easy job and stack even more money on top of what I already have? I forgot about the part where Big Canoe residents know my business and some aren’t afraid to share their opinions on it. But at least I won’t be staying for long.
My parents will be back on the first of the year. I’m leaving the next day. For real this time.
I check my phone — a different, randomly selected photo of Reave’s handsomeness displays there now — to see we have twenty minutes left until closing, along with another message from Scammereave with only a heart emoji. He’s never sent something like that before. It’s pleasant but startling. Following my usual protocol, I don’t respond.
There are one or two people still looking around the store, but I take my chance to grab my favorite holiday treat: Santa Cheese. I need something delicious to give me a little dopamine spike after work. Santa Cheese comes in a glass sphere. The two halves unscrew after you remove the slender, golden label that seals the seam. The label displays the brand name in a crimson, Vivaldi script (yes, I looked it up). Uber Christmas-y. The cheese inside mixes several of my favorites. Goat cheese is delicious on its own. But the brand creates confetti of large chunks and small bits of roasted red bell peppers, green onions, smoked paprika, and tarragon. And the bit of granulated garlic and white pepper they season it with kicks the tastiness up another notch. I know for a fact that I can order it on Amazon without it having to be in season. But there’s something about buying it from our quaint little IGA and taking it up the mountain on my way home that feels like a mini tradition.
As I walk over to the dairy cooler, I realize that this month will contain the last few times I’ll buy Santa Cheese as a resident of Pickens County. This time next year, I’ll be living in Brookhaven, Kirkwood, or even Virginia Highlands. I plan on visiting my parents periodically, and likely during the holidays, but I’ll be a Fulton or DeKalb County resident then.
I reach for what I see is the last of the Santa Cheese, a lonely little sphere of glass in the corner of the shipping box, but something big, soft, and warm touches my fingers first.
It’s a hand in a black leather glove. My eyes move up the lean arm coated in inky wool. Then I see the face from which a rich, all-too-familiar voice emanates while I stare in stunned silence.
“Oh, excuse me, I…” he begins but then stops when he sees my face. His lips remain parted and they are as kissable and luscious as they are in all his pics. Though he’s stopped speaking, the bass of his voice is still reverberating through my body, like it does during a podcast interview. I touched the hand of the man who created the worlds and characters that made me who I am today. Well…who I plan to be tomorrow, anyway.
Reave Alami is in my IGA and, apparently, he also likes Santa Cheese.
